


Puzzle Pieces

by retribution_comes



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Platonic Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retribution_comes/pseuds/retribution_comes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU, Combeferre is a doctor at a mental home and Enjolras, who has two big mental disabilities, is his patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

“A revolution.” Enjolras said, looking at all of his friends gathered at the café Musain. “We will rise up and take this city for liberty and for equality! Those who claim to be higher than the citizens of Paris shall fall and a new age shall dawn.  We will see our country reborn!”

A cry of agreement rose up from the students present.  They huddled around tables and began to talk excitedly of a new republic and of preparations for a battle.  Enjolras stepped down off of his chair and was immediately greeted by Courfeyrac.

“That was amazing, Enjolras.  How do you just ad lib these things?” 

Enjolras shrugged and looked at the clock on the wall. “I guess I was just born with the talent.”

Courfeyrac followed his gaze and looked at the clock. “What’s wrong?” 

Enjolras sighed. “Where is Combeferre?”

Courfeyrac looked around. “I thought he was here.”

“He’s not.” Enjolras stared at the clock and watched the time turn from 2:00 to 2:01.  “He’s late.”

 

“Shit, I’m late.” Combeferre said, scooting his chair out from the table and gathering his lunch tray. 

One of his friends looked up at him. “Come on, man, that guy can wait at least another minute! Let Noémi finish her story!”

“No, Marc, it’s fine. I’ll tell it later.  It’s important Guillaume get’s there on time.” Noémi looked at Combeferre. “Go, it’s fine.”

Combeferre smiled and nodded. “Thanks.  Sorry, guys, we’ll talk more tomorrow but I really have to go.”  He turned around, threw his Styrofoam tray in the trashcan and walked quickly out of the small break room.

 

Combeferre slipped back into his white coat and grabbed his clipboard from the reception desk.  

“Hey, Guillaume.” The receptionist said.

“Hello, Anne, sorry I can’t talk, I’m late.” He took a few steps forward then turned around and stood in front of the desk. 

Anne smiled. “Red pen?”

Combeferre nodded. “Yes, please.” 

Anne held one up and Combeferre took it with a smile. “Thanks.”

“You are really late.” She said.

Combeferre nodded and started walking down the hallway. “I know, I know.  Today is not my day.” 

 

Combeferre opened the door to the room and hesitantly entered.  “Enjolras?”

The room wasn’t very large but it was big enough to hold a single bed, a desk, a dresser and a small table with two chairs around it.  The taupe colored walls were covered with maps, flags and a few framed paintings. One was _The Storming of the Bastille_ , another was _Scène de Juillet 1830_ and the third was Liberty Leading the People.  All that was hung on the walls was done so with careful measurement and placement so that the walls didn’t look clustered but perfectly neat and orderly.  The window in the corner of the room was open and a slight breeze rustled the French and red flag that were also hanging on the wall. 

Enjolras was standing in the middle of his room gazing up at the clock on the wall.  “2:05 …”

“I know, I apologize for being late.” Combeferre looked down at his clipboard. “How are you feeling today?”

“It’s … odd …” Enjolras said.

Combeferre looked up. “What’s odd?”

“The time, you are supposed to come at 2:00 and that’s all even but you came at 2:05 and five is an odd number. You are supposed to come on an even number.” Enjolras started fidgeting with the strings on his red hoodie and his breathing sped up. “It’s odd …”

Combeferre nodded. “It’s okay, Enjolras.  Would you like me to leave and come back in at 2:06?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”  Combeferre left the room.

Enjolras rocked back and forth in his feet and looked up at the clock. “Five is an odd number.  Enjolras had eight letters, E-N-J-O-L-R-A-S, eight.  But Jacob has five letters, J-A-C-O-B, five. And I don’t like that.” He raised his voice so Combeferre could hear outside the door. “I don’t go by my first name, Combeferre, because it has five letters!”

Combeferre’s voice came back muffled. “You are absolutely right, Enjolras. How many letters does my name have?”

Enjolras, still starring at the clock, counted, “G-U-I-L-L-A-U-M-E, Guillaume.  That has nine so that’s no good.  But Combeferre has ten, C-O-M-B-E-F-E-R-R-E, ten.”

The clock turned to 2:06 and Enjolras relaxed. “It’s even now.”

Combeferre opened the door and came back into the room. “So, Enjolras, how are you doing today?”

Enjolras nodded. “Plans for the revolt are going well.  Grantaire was annoying me again today.”

Combeferre scribbled some things down on his clipboard, “And Grantaire is the one that always drinks?”

Enjolras nodded and started to rearrange all the items on his desk so they were in a straight line. “He drinks, like my dad used to drink.”

“And sometimes your dad hurt you when he was drunk right?” Combeferre asked softly.

Enjolras made a distressed noise and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it, Combeferre.  Don’t make me talk about it today, please.” 

Combeferre nodded. “That’s fine.  We won’t talk about it.”

“Courfeyrac liked my speech today.” Enjolras said, finishing up his rearranging.  

Combeferre stopped writing and squeezed his eyes shut. “Did he?”

“Yes.” Enjolras moved on to reorganizing his books on the shelf above his desk. “Hey, Combeferre, when is Courfeyrac going to come visit me again?”

Combeferre sighed, still not opening his eyes. “He can’t come and visit you anymore, remember? We talked about this.”

Enjolras stopped his task and started rocking back and forth on his feet. “Cars.” He whispered. 

“Yes, because of cars.” Combeferre opened his eyes and wrote something down on his clipboard.

Enjolras turned and looked at the clipboard Combeferre was writing on.  “Red pen.” He muttered. “I like your red pen, Combeferre.  Red is a great color … ff0000 is my favorite shade.” Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “You are wearing a bracelet today.” He walked over and touched Combeferre’s left wrist. “That’s a blue bracelet and you don’t usually wear it.”

Combeferre looked at the plastic blue bracelet on his wrist. “It’s April, I wear it every April, remember?”

Enjolras’s blue eyes scrutinized the bracelet as he spoke absentmindedly. “Yes … April.  A-P-R-I-L … a dismal five letter word.  Why do you wear it every April?”

“I wear it for you, Enjolras.” Combeferre said.

Enjolras smiled. “For me.” He repeated.

“Yes.”

Enjolras read the words on the bracelet. “ ‘Autism Awareness’.” He bit his lip and rocked back and forth on his feet. “Autism, A-U-T-I-S-M, six letters.”

“It’s an even number.  It’s good.” Combeferre said.

Enjolras nodded. “It’s good. It’s good because you are my friend and you still like me and you don’t yell … and you don’t hit.”

Combeferre caught Enjolras’s eyes. “I will _never_ hit.”

Enjolras looked at him. “Never hit.”

Combeferre smiled and put his clipboard under his arm. “So, Enjolras, who was exiled to Elba in 1814?”

Enjolras made a disguised face. “Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Who stormed the Bastille in 1789?”

Enjolras smiled. “The people of Paris.”

“Who wrote The Social Contract?”

“Jean-Jacques Rousseau.”

“Who has read The Social Contract far too many times?”

Enjolras giggled. “Me.”

“And who cares about you more than anything in this whole world?”

Enjolras smiled. “Combeferre.”


	2. Chapter 2

On April 12th Combeferre received some very distressing news.

            

“ _Two days_?” Combeferre walked around the reception desk and looked at Anne’s computer screen.  “Do you know for sure?”

Anne pointed to Enjolras’s name in the screen, “See, this is his row and all the columns are the days.” She pointed to the two consecutive blank lines, “Every time any of the patients enter into the dining hall and put in their code, it transfers to these columns and puts an X in for each meal.” She looked up at Combeferre. “Enjolras hasn’t had any X’s for the past two days.”

Combeferre shook his head. “He hasn’t eaten in two days …”

Anne shrugged. “It could be that he’s forgetting to put in his code.”

“No, Enjolras always remembers to do that.” Combeferre sighed and looked at the clock on the computer. “I should go talk to him.”

“Aren’t you off duty? It’s 6:00.” 

Combeferre walked back around the reception desk and towards Enjolras’s room. “Yeah but this is important.”

 

“Eating is important to your health, Enjolras.” Joly said with concern. 

Enjolras sighed. “I am well aware of that, but it is unsafe to enter into the dining hall.”

“Unsafe?”

Bossuet sat down in front of Enjolras. “Yeah, I heard the police force is spreading their surveillance.  They are definitely in the dining hall.”

Enjolras sat back in his chair. “There is no other explanation.  They must have found out that we frequent the dining hall and that’s why they changed everything.”

Courfeyrac came and stood beside Enjolras. “So, what, are you going to starve yourself?”

“Well, I certainty cannot go back in there … not with those numbers.” Enjolras shook his head. “Things are getting far more dangerous than I expected.”

 

Combeferre knocked four times on Enjolras’s door and then entered. “It’s me Enjolras.”

Enjolras was sitting at his small table surrounded by papers.  He turned and looked at Combeferre in confusion. “It’s past 6:00, Combeferre.  You leave and go home at 6:00 and then come back in the morning at 7:00.  You are still here, why are you still here?”

Combeferre walked over to Enjolras’s table. “I’m still here because I need to ask you a question.” 

Enjolras looked up at his clock worriedly. “But if you stay, you run the risk of leaving at 6:03 or 6:05 or 6:07 or 6:08—“

Combeferre sighed. “I don’t always leave right at six on the dot, Enjolras.”

Enjolras’s eyes widened and his breathing became suddenly uneven. “You … you don’t? You sometimes leave at 6:03 or … or 6:05?” He looked desperately at Combeferre. “Please say that you always leave at 6:00 on the dot, Combeferre.  Can you please say it?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Combeferre looked at Enjolras in the eyes. “I always leave at 6:00 on the dot, okay? Always.”

Enjolras looked down at his papers and started stacking them and muttering, “Combeferre always leaves at 6:00.”

Combeferre motioned to the second chair at the table. “Is this seat taken?”

Enjolras nodded. “By Bossuet but he got up so you can sit now, Combeferre.”

“Thank you, Enjolras.” Combeferre sat down, folded his hands and put them on the table.  

Enjolras mimicked the motion and looked at him sternly. “This is a serious conversation. Our hands are folded so that we won’t fidget.”

“You are correct.” Combeferre took a deep breath and then looked directly at Enjolras. “You need to tell me the truth, okay? Have you been to the dining hall in the past two days?”

Enjolras immediately looked away from Combeferre and started wringing his hands. “Maybe we can talk about something else.” He said quietly.

Combeferre shook his head. “No, Enjolras, you need to answer this question.  Either yes or no.”  He already knew the answer.  Looking at Enjolras now he could see that he was paler than usual, his red T-shirt looked a little too big and there were dark circles under his eyes.  Combeferre also realized that in the past few days he’d checked up on him, Enjolras was never standing, he was always sitting down and Combeferre guessed that he was maybe too weak to stand.

Enjolras looked hesitantly up and Combeferre through his blonde curly hair, afraid to speak. 

“Yes or no, Enjolras.  Have you been to the dining hall in the past two days?” 

“Yes.”

“You _have_ been going?”

“No.”

Combeferre sighed. “You need to give me a straight answer.”

“Please, don’t yell.” Enjolras squeezed his hands together so his knuckles went white. 

“I’m not yelling.” Combeferre closed his eyes and once again took a breath. “I’m going to ask one more time, okay? Have you been to the dining hall in the past two days?” He opened his eyes and found Enjolras shaking his head. “Thank you for answering me.  Why haven’t you been going?”

Enjolras bit his lip and rocked back and forth in his chair. “They changed my number and I don’t think that I like the change.  It’s not good.”

Combeferre frowned. “They changed your code?”

Enjolras nodded. “I think that the police did it.”

“The police didn’t do it, Enjolras.  There are no policemen here.”

“Combeferre says no policemen.” Enjolras muttered. “Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, Grantaire, Courfeyrac and Feuilly, Combeferre says no policemen.”

“Enjolras, did you forget your code?” Combeferre asked, trying to regain his attention.

But Enjolras shook his head. “No, no, I don’t forget, Combeferre.  My old code was 0242 and that was a nice code with nice numbers” He drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t like the new one, Combeferre.”

“What’s your new one?”

Enjolras made a distressed noise and blinked a few times before answering. “515.” 

Combeferre sighed and muttered “Oh my god …” 

Enjolras’s breathing became even more uneven as he spoke. “515 … that’s only three numbers, Combeferre … and … and five times one is five and then five times five is twenty five.” 

“Enjolras--” Combeferre started

“Five plus one is six but six plus five is eleven and I can’t use that number, Combeferre. I can’t use 515.” Distraught tears started to form in Enjolras’s eyes and he furrowed his eyebrows and started to rock back and forth in his chair. “Don’t make me use 515, please. I don’t want to use it.”

Combeferre reached out and rested two of his fingers on Enjolras arm.  Enjolras immediately stopped rocking and looked at Combeferre’s fingers. “Two.” He muttered.

“Enjolras, we are going to get your number changed.” Combeferre said, placing four fingers on his arm.

“Four.” Enjolras said. “You are going to change my number.”

“Yes, I am going to change it back to 0424.” Combeferre patted Enjolras’s arm with his four fingers. “It will never be changed again after that.”

Enjolras sniffed and nodded. “Thank you, Combeferre.”

“You don’t have to thank me, mon frère.” 

“Mon frère.” Enjolras repeated. “We are not related, Combeferre.”

Combeferre smiled. “Not by blood, no, but we can still be brothers.”

Enjolras returned his smile. “I’ve never had a brother.”

“Well, you do now.” Combeferre stood up. “Do you want to come to the dining hall and get something to eat?”

Enjolras nodded and stood up slowly and as he did, Combeferre saw that he was struggling. 

“Enjolras, do you want to stay here and let me bring you food? I’m afraid that you are going to fall down if you try to walk.”

“My head hurts, Combeferre, and so does my stomach.” 

Combeferre nodded. “That’s because you haven’t eaten in two days.”

“Can I sit back down?” 

“Yes, of course.  I’m going to bring you some food, okay?”

Enjolras sat and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. “Thank you, mon frère.”

 

“So, does Jacob have any friends here? I mean, besides you?” Noémi asked, walking along the dinner line with Combeferre as he gathered some food for Enjolras.

“Not really.” Combeferre grabbed a small bowl of red Jell-O and placed it on the tray. “All of his friends are in his mind.”

Noémi nodded. “Oh, that’s right. He’s autistic and –“

“Schizophrenic.” Combeferre finished. “Yeah.  He has imagined up this whole group of friends and he thinks that they are all going to rise up and revolt against the government.”

Noémi nodded. “Wow, that’s … interesting.  Our government could probably use some revolting against.”

Combeferre smiled. “Yeah.  It’s not as bad as Enjolras is imagining it to be though.  I mean, we still have a King and oppression and inequality still exist but Enjolras thinks it’s much worse than what I actually is.”

“Well, it’s not like he is ever going to get the chance to actually revolt.” Noémi said, with a hint of sadness in her voice.

“That’s true.” Combeferre finished filling the tray and the two started walking towards the dining hall door. “But you should read the speeches he writes, Noémi.  They … they are absolutely incredible.  Sometimes I wonder …” He trailed off.

“Who he could have been?”

Combeferre looked down at the tray of food in his hands. “Yeah.  But he is the way he is and that is incredible too.”

They walked about of the dining hall and Combeferre turned to go back to Enjolras’s room.

“I’m going go home, Guillaume.” Noémi said, stopping in her place. “But I have a suggestion.”

Combeferre turned around. “A suggestion?”

“Yeah, I was thinking that it might be better for Jacob if he had a friend here, I mean, someone who was here all the time.”

“You mean like one of the other patients?”

“Uh huh.  Someone who could maybe prevent something like this from ever happening again. Someone to help him.”

Combeferre shrugged. “Do you have someone in mind? Enjolras is a very forthright person, if he doesn’t like someone he’ll say it and never see them again.”

Noémi nodded. “I have no doubt. But yes, I do have someone in mind, my patient actually.  He’s the sweetest person you will ever meet, he’s very caring and friendly, he loves books and writing poetry but he is also willing to be very daring, which Enjolras might connect with.”

“Sure, I have no objections.  Enjolras would benefit from having a real friend besides me and Courf—“ Combeferre stopped himself and quickly tried to recover. “What’s his status?”

“He has a mild form of autism along with a more severe case of ADHD.  If you want they could meet tomorrow, outside at 1:00.”

“Better make it 2:00 but that sounds great.” Combeferre started walking towards Enjolras’s room, when he remembered something and turned back. “Oh, and what’s your patients name?”

Noémi smiled. “Jean Prouvaire.”   


	3. Three

Enjolras was quiet on the walk to the courtyard, which troubled Combeferre.  Usually he always had something to say so this silence was starting to make Combeferre feel like maybe having Enjolras meet someone knew wasn’t a good idea.   

            “Enjolras, are you feeling better today?” He asked, trying to break the silence.

            Enjolras wrung out the end of his T-shirt and nodded quickly. “Yes, better today, Combeferre, thank you for asking.”

            “You’re welcome. I just want to make sure you are okay.” Combeferre glanced at him and saw that he was wearing an expression that he didn’t like the look of.  Enjolras looked very distressed and he seemed to only grow more so as they walked.  Combeferre walked around in front of Enjolras and stopped.

            Enjolras stopped in his tracks and looked up at Combeferre, confused. “You’re standing in front of me.”

            “What’s wrong, Enjolras? I can tell something is bothering you.” Combeferre caught his eye. “You can tell me.”

            Enjolras rocked back and forth on his feet and said, “I don’t want you to leave, Combeferre.” Tears welled up in his eyes and he quickly brushed one away as it fell. “Please, don’t leave.”

            Combeferre shook his head and placed four of his fingers on Enjolras’s arm. “I’m not leaving, Enjolras. What gave you that idea?”

            Enjolras sniffed and looked up. “You are making me meet someone new.  Meeting new people means older friends go away.  Everyone always leaves.”

            Combeferre rubbed Enjolras’s arm. “No, no, no.  I’m not leaving.  You are meeting Jean Prouvaire today so you can have a friend around to go eat with you and walk around with you when I have other duties to preform. But I’m still coming back here at 7:00 every day.” 

            Enjolras took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, Combeferre.  That makes me feel better.”

            Combeferre smiled. “I will never leave you, Enjolras. Ever.”

            “And I will never ever leave you either, Combeferre.” Enjolras returned the smile. 

            Combeferre nodded resolutely. “Good. Now let’s go meet Jean Prouvaire.” 

            

            Combeferre spotted Noémi as soon as they walked outside.  She was standing under one of the bigger trees in the courtyard and waved at them when she saw the two walking towards her.

            Combeferre introduced Enjolras to Noémi when they met up with each other. “Enjolras, this is Noémi, she’s a friend of Jean Prouvaire’s.” 

            Noémi stuck out her hand. “Hello, Enjolras.” 

            Enjolras looked at the hand and then hesitantly tapped it with four of his fingers. Noémi looked inquisitively at Combeferre.

            “Your hand.  You are holding out five fingers.” Combeferre explained. “He doesn’t like odd numbers.”  Combeferre looked at Enjolras. “Enjolras, you need to return Noémi’s greeting. Be polite.”

            Enjolras nodded. “Hello … um …”

            “Noémi.” She repeated with a smile, dropping her hand. 

            “I know.” Enjolras looked at Combeferre, pleadingly. “But …

            Combeferre looked down at the ground. “Her last name is Marotte. So why don’t you just call her Mademoiselle?” Combeferre looked up at Noémi. “If that’s okay.”

            Noémi nodded. “Of course.”

            “Well!” Combeferre clapped his hands together. “Where is Jean Prouvaire?”

            Noémi lifted her head and called up to the tree. “Jehan! Come down and meet Enjolras!”

            There was a fit of giggles and then some branch rustling and finally a younger man jumped from the lowest branch down onto the ground.  Jean Prouvaire stood up and brushed off his light blue, black flower embroidered, skinny jeans, which contrasted greatly with the T-shirt he was wearing. It was yellow, green and grey and had a large picture of a mushroom cloud covering it, which didn’t seem to fit the initial flower theme of his pants. He was shorter than Enjolras and maybe a few years younger, he had light curly brown hair, which had various beads and feathers stuck in it and his eyes were a very bright shade of green.  However, the first thing Enjolras was drawn to look at was the younger man’s feet … and the absence of shoes or socks.

            “You aren’t wearing any shoes.” Enjolras commented. “Why aren’t you wearing any shoes? You’re supposed to put on shoes when you go outside.”

            Jean Prouvaire laughed. “Shoes are an option! I like to choose the option where they are off! What if you are walking along one day and you happen to pass by a nice little stream? Well, you can’t very well waste time taking off your shoes and socks and _then_ walk in it! No. It would be easier if you didn’t have shoes on at all and then you are free to do what you please, when you are pleased to do it!”

            Enjolras took a small step back.  Combeferre smiled a little at the overwhelmed look on his friends face.  Jean Prouvaire was certainly different from Enjolras in more ways than one.

            “I think that maybe it’s okay for us to disagree on a few things.” Enjolras said, rather quietly. “I quite like shoes.”

            Jean Prouvaire grinned and pointed down to Enjolras’s feet. “I like your shoes very much! Red is a very bold color and Converse a very popular brand. I think you …” Jean trailed off as his attention was suddenly drawn to a bird that had just landed on a near by tree. He cocked his head slightly to the left and said, “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird. No hungry generations tread thee down; the voice I hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown.” 

            “Jehan?” Noémi gently touched his arm.

            “John Keats, _Ode to a Nightingale_.” Jean said, still looking at the bird. 

            “Jehan, why don’t you properly introduce yourself to Enjolras?” Noémi said, turning him away from the bird.

            “Okay!” Jean Prouvaire turned back to Enjolras. “Hello, my name is Jean Prouvaire but my friends call me Jehan! Jehan has more of a flourish to it, you see, so I like it better than Jean.  Noémi said your name was Enjolras.  Is that your first name or last name? It sounds like a last name but people don’t usually go by their last names in this day and age.  Why do you go by your last name, Enjolras? And what is your first name?”

            Enjolras glanced at Combeferre and then back at Jean Prouvaire. “Jacob is my first name but I don’t like that name because it has five letters in it and five is not an even number.  Enjolras has eight letters and eight is even so I go by Enjolras.” He bit his lip and started to rock back and forth on his feet. “I … um … I want to be your friend Jean—“

            “Jehan!” Prouvaire said with a smile. “My friends call me Jehan.”

            Enjolras made an anxious whine and shook his head. “That name has five letters.”

            Prouvaire nodded. “That’s okay, Enjolras. How about you call me … Jehan Prouvaire!” He smiled widely. “Together they have fourteen letters and fourteen is an even number!”

            Enjolras counted the letters in his head and a small smile spread across his face. “Yes. Jehan Prouvaire is fourteen letters.” He turned to Combeferre. “J-E-H-A-N space P-R-O-U-V-A-I-R-E is fourteen letters all together, Combeferre.”

            Combeferre nodded. “You are absolutely right, Enjolras.”

            Jehan bounced up and down and giggled. “Yay for new friends!” 

            Noémi smiled and said, “Well, Jehan, it’s time for you to go see Doctor Pique but maybe you and Enjolras can go to dinner together tonight.” 

            “Okay!” Jehan turned back to Enjolras. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

            Enjolras nodded. “Okay, Jehan Prouvaire, I’ll see you later.”

            Noémi nodded a goodbye to Combeferre and the two starting walking back towards the main building, all the way Jehan held Noémi’s hand and pointed out different birds and butterflies in the garden. 

            “Do you think he’ll make a good friend, Enjolras?” Combeferre asked.

            “I think that maybe he will.” Enjolras shrugged. “Not as good a you but still, a good friend.  I don’t like that he doesn’t wear shoes though.” 

            Combeferre laughed. “Well, you don’t like odd numbers and he doesn’t like shoes.” 

            “Hey, Guillaume!” A voice called out to their right. An orderly was running up to them with a sheet of paper in his hand.

            “Combeferre.” Enjolras corrected under his breath. “Guillaume had nine letters. G-U-I—“

            “Shhh, Enjolras.” Combeferre calmed him, gently. “Hey, Alain.” Combeferre said when the orderly had made his way over to the two. “What’s up?”

            “I just wanted to tell you that I got a call from some guy today and he set up a meeting with Jacob—“

            “Enjolras.” Enjolras interrupted. 

            Combeferre turned to him. “Stop. Let Alain talk.”

            “Sorry.” Enjolras said, biting down on his lip. 

            Combeferre turned back to Alain. “So, who was this guy?”

            Alain looked at the paper in his hand. “Uh, a Leon Enjolras.”

            Enjolras made a loud, distressed noise and started to back away. “No, no, no. I don’t want to speak to a Leon Enjolras. No.”

            Combeferre turned around. “Enjolras it’s okay, he just wants to talk.”

            Enjolras covered his ears. “No, no, no, no, no, Combeferre. Not Leon Enjolras.”

            Combeferre gently grabbed his arms and pulled them down to his side. “Enjolras, I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

            “Leon Enjolras is stronger than you, Combeferre.” Enjolras struggled to break free of Combeferre’s grip. “Leon Enjolras will hurt you too.”

            “Enjolras, stop. Calm down.”

            “I don’t want to talk to him!”

            Combeferre turned to Alain. “Call the others, tell them we have a code white.”

            Alain nodded and pulled out his radio and started talking to someone on the other line.

            Combeferre turned back to Enjolras who had started silently sobbing and shaking out his hands. “Enjolras, who was exiled to Elba in 1814?” 

            Enjolras shook his head.

            “You know who.  Napoleon Bonaparte.” Combeferre tried to speak as calmly as possible. “Who stormed the Bastille in 1789? The people of Paris did, you know that too.”

            Enjolras started to hyperventilate; he started to fall to the ground but Combeferre caught him and gently lowered him down into his knees. “Who wrote The Social Contract, Enjolras?”

            “L-leon Enjolras.” 

            Combeferre shook his head. “No, Jean-Jacques Rousseau.  Who has read The Social Contract far too many times? You have, Enjolras.”

            “I have.” Enjolras whispered through his strained breaths. “Not Leon Enjolras. Me.”

            Combeferre nodded. “Right. And who cares about you more than—“

            His words were cut off by the small group of orderlies that suddenly surrounded Enjolras to help him calm down.  Combeferre stood and backed up, still staying a few feet away so Enjolras could see that he was still there.

            “More than anything in this whole world.” Combeferre finished quietly. “Me.  I’m not going to let him hurt you, Enjolras. Ever.” 


	4. Chapter 4

            Jehan bounced up and down as he and Enjolras walked along the small pathway that went through the woods.

            “You get to talk with your dad today, Enjolras, aren’t you excited? I would be excited.  My dad is dead but my mom comes every week to see me.  I love my mom, do you love your mom, Enjolras?”

            Enjolras rubbed his eyes. “You talk too fast, Jehan Prouvaire.”

            Jehan giggled. “Noémi says that I also ask a lot of questions.”  He turned around and called behind him. “Don’t I ask a lot of questions, Noémi?”

            Noémi, who was walking with Combeferre a few yards away from the two, smiled and nodded. “All the time, Jehan, all the time.”

            “I like questions.” Jehan said, turning back to Enjolras. “So are you excited to talk with you dad today?”

            Enjolras shook his head. “No.”

            Jehan frowned. “No? Do you not like your dad, Enjolras?”

            Enjolras looked away. “No. Leon Enjolras is not a good man.”

            

 

            “Enjolras, look at me.” Combeferre said firmly to Enjolras who was sitting in the corner of his room, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head on top of them. When he didn’t respond, Combeferre signed and tried again. “Enjolras, I know you are scared but if you don’t talk to him today, he will keep coming back again and again. If you speak with him today, it will be the last time you ever have to do so.” 

            “Do you promise?” Enjolras asked, still not lifting his head.

            “I promise.” 

            Enjolras looked up at Combeferre. “He is not a good man, Combeferre.”

            “I know but I’m going to be with you the whole time, okay?”

            “Okay, Combeferre.  Can we go see Courfeyrac after I talk to Leon Enjolras?” 

            Combeferre nodded. “If that’s what you want to do, then sure.” 

            “That is what I want to do.”

            “Okay.” Combeferre looked up at the clock on the wall. “We have to go now.”

            Enjolras groaned and covered his ears with his hands. “No, I don’t want to go, Combeferre.  I don’t …”

            Combeferre gently lowered Enjolras’s arms and looked him in the eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

 

            The minute Enjolras saw his father standing in the courtyard he got behind Combeferre and refused to move forward.

            “He is not a good man.” Enjolras kept muttering. “Joly says to stay away and Bahorel agrees.  If Bahorel agrees then I shouldn’t go because Bahorel knows lots of not good men.”

            Combeferre turned around. “Enjolras, let’s just get through this.  You and me, okay? We are only going to talk to him for twenty minutes and then we are going to leave.”

            Enjolras wrung out his hands but nodded.  The two walked towards Enjolras’s father and as they got closer Combeferre could see the resemblance between the son and the father.  The elder Enjolras had short, slightly curly grey hair, he was tall and thin and stood with his shoulders high and his hands behind his back.  He was wearing a suit like he’d just come from a high paying job and he was slowly pacing back and forth.

            “Monsieur Enjolras?” Combeferre asked when they were close to him.

            The elder man snapped his head towards the two, causing the younger Enjolras to flinch and whimper very softly.  

            “Ah, yes.  You must be Doctor Guillaume Combeferre.” Leon Enjolras didn’t offer a hand to shake and his cold blue eyes only briefly looked at Combeferre before staring at Enjolras, who was still standing behind Combeferre with his eyes directed intently at the ground. “I would like to speak with my son in private if I could.”

            Combeferre shook his head. “I’m sorry but I can’t leave.”

            Leon Enjolras looked at Combeferre with an expression of distaste. “Then perhaps you could sit on that bench over there?”

            Combeferre looked at the bench that was a few yards away and sighed. “All right.”

            Enjolras grabbed Combeferre’s arm as he started to leave. “No, don’t leave.” He whispered.

            Combeferre looked at him and whispered back. “I’m just going to be over there, okay? I’m going to be watching the whole thing.”

            Enjolras let go of Combeferre’s arm as he walked away and watched him until he sat on the bench.  Then he hesitantly turned his father and opened his mouth to say something.

            Leon Enjolras put up his hand. “You will speak when you are spoken to.”

            Enjolras looked down at the ground and started to rock back and forth on his feet.

            The elder Enjolras frowned. “Stop that. You look ridiculous. I have come to speak with a man, not a boy.”

            Enjolras tried to stop but he couldn’t. “I can’t help it, Leon Enjolras.” He said quietly.

            The old man sighed angrily. “I see that haven’t even started to cure you yet.”

            Enjolras looked up. “Cure? I’m not sick.” 

            “If you aren’t sick then you are an abomination to this family.  Do you want to be an abomination?”

            Enjolras frowned. “No but … I’m not sick.”

            Leon shook his head. “You are, Jacob.”

            Enjolras flinched at the name but didn’t address it. “Okay.” He said quietly. 

            Leon reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper. “I came to tell you that your grandfather has died and, unfortunately, he has seen fit to leave you a large sum of money.  You will sign this form that entitles all of that money over to me instead.”

            Enjolras stared at the form in his father’s hand. “I don’t want to sign that.”

            The elder man walked closer to Enjolras. “You will sign it.  You have no concept of how much money you have been given so I will take it from here on out.”

            “But I was given the money, Leon Enjolras. If he gave it to me then it’s mine, not yours.” Anger swept over Leon’s face and Enjolras instinctively took a few steps back. “I’m sorry.” He said.

            “Do you think you know better than I do?” Leon said, angrily taking another step towards him. 

            Enjolras shook his head and his eyes flicked to where Combeferre was sitting.  He wanted to leave the courtyard … 

            Suddenly, Leon grabbed Enjolras’s hand and stuffed the form in it. “You WILL sign this!”

            Enjolras gasped. “Five!” He yelled and ripped his arm out of his father’s grip. “Don’t touch me, please, Leon Enjolras.”

            “How dare you!” Leon bellowed. “Do not defy me!”

            Courfyerac walked out from behind Enjolras’s father.  “Don’t let him scare you.”

            “You’re a strong person, Enjolras.” Feuilly said, coming to stand beside him. 

            Enjolras looked at his father and said again. “Please, do not touch me.” 

            “I will do what I please, you damn retard!”

            A red flag went up in Enjolras’s mind. 

            “Punch him, Enjolras.” Bahorel said.

            Joly stood beside Bahorel. “No one can call you that.”

            “Do it!” Bossuet chimed in. 

            Before he understood what he was doing, Enjolras had pulled back his fist and will all of his force he punched his father in the jaw.  Leon Enjolras reeled backwards, holding his mouth and cursing all the while.

            Suddenly, Combeferre was by his side but all Enjolras could register was the overwhelming sound of Bahorel saying …

            “Punch him too, Enjolras! He let your father in here in the first place!” 

            It all happened far to quickly and Enjolras’s mind was so confused that all he remembered was seeing Combeferre stumble backwards, with blood dripping from his nose.  

And then there was a sharp prick in his neck and everything went black. 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I'd like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far. Thanks for sticking with it!)

             _“I’m fine … no … his father just made him angry … it’ll stop bleeding soon …”_

 

Enjolras cracked open an eye and was relieved when he saw his own ceiling above him.  His father was gone.  He wasn’t outside.  There was no more yelling. 

He opened up both of his eyes and tipped his head forward and saw that Grantaire was sitting on the edge of his bed.

“I think you’re in trouble, man.” He took a swig out of his beer bottle and pointed straight ahead. “You really did a number on him.”

Enjolras frowned and turned his head to the side to look at whomever Grantaire was pointing at.  

There were three other people in his room; Mademoiselle, a doctor and Combeferre, who was sitting down at his small table and holding a bloody tissue to his nose.  

And then Enjolras remembered hitting him.

“Oops,” Enjolras whispered.  He sat up and started to wring his hands together. His head swam from whatever shot he had been given to knock him unconscious but he was very aware of the mistake he had made. “Never hit,” he muttered. 

 

Combeferre was the first to see that Enjolras was awake; he quickly disposed of his bloody tissue and put on his glasses. 

“Hey, Enjolras,” Combeferre said gently as he walked over to his friend, who was sitting up in his bed looking like he was on the verge of tears. “Don’t worry about anything.  Your father is gone.”

Combeferre hadn’t noticed that as he had walked over to Enjolras’s bed, the other doctor had followed him.  Enjolras looked at Combeferre and then looked up at the doctor behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said. “Please don’t punish me.”

Combeferre turned around and looked up at the doctor. “Could you give him some space?”

“Are you suggesting he might hit someone again?” The doctor asked.

Combeferre shook his head. “No, but he get’s nervous around new people and—“

“Does he often punch new people?” 

Combeferre sighed. “No.  He hates hitting.  His father abused him when he was a child.”  He reached behind him as he heard Enjolras whimper and placed four fingers on his friends arm. “I’m sure he had a very good reason to hit his father.” 

The doctor raised his eyebrow. “And to hit you too?”

“Antoine Bahorel told me to.” Enjolras spoke up.

Combeferre closed his eyes. _Shit_

“Antoine Bahorel?” The other doctor asked. “Who is that?”

“No one—“ Combeferre started.

“My friend,” Enjolras said. “Leon Enjolras called me the “R” word and no one is allowed to call me that, so Antoine Bahorel told me to hit him so I did.”

The doctor held up his clipboard and started writing on it. “What is the “R” word?”

Combeferre signed angrily. “You know damn well that it is.  _Retard._ He hit his father because he called him a retard.”

“A ‘damn retard’,” Enjolras muttered.

Combeferre’s eyes widened and he looked back at Enjolras. “He called you a _damn_ retard?”

Enjolras looked down at his bed and nodded.

Combeferre turned back around. “Well, now even I want to punch someone.” 

“So who is this Antoine Bahorel, again?” The doctor asked.

“My friend,” Enjolras repeated.  

“No, Enjolras—“ Combeferre started.

“He’s standing right behind you.”

Combeferre put his hands over his face and sighed as the doctor turned around, confused.  

“Doctor Combeferre,” he said, turning back around, “will you please step out into the hall with me?”

Combeferre didn’t look at the doctor but nodded quickly. 

“Combeferre, are you in trouble too?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre turned around. “Yeah.”

 

“What is the meaning of this?” The doctor asked.

Combeferre sighed. “He has schizophrenia.”

“We are aware of this fact,” The doctor answered, sternly. “However, he is supposed to be on medication for this problem.”

“I know.” Combeferre admitted. “But he is so much happier when he can see his friends that I just …” He trailed off. 

“You just what?”

“I don’t give him the medication because when he can’t see his friends he actually gets depressed!” Combeferre shook his head. “I refuse to let him live like that.”

“It was decided that the medication was the best thing for him.  He needs to learn that those people aren’t real.”  The doctor looked sternly at Combeferre. “If he hadn’t been seeing his ‘friends’ he wouldn’t have punched his father and he wouldn’t have punched you either.” 

“His father called him a retard!” Combeferre yelled. “No one can call him that and get away with it.”

“I highly doubt Jacob would have punched his father had he not been urged on by his hallucinations.  Furthermore, had a team not arrived on time, Jacob himself might have been injured.” The doctor started writing things down on his clipboard. “For your insubordination and for placing your patient and his father and yourself in danger, you will be removed from your position as Jacob Enjolras’s doctor at once.”

Combeferre was shocked, he felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.  His brown eyes widened and he shook his head. “Doctor, I beg you to reconsider.  I have known Enjolras for a very long time and we have been through so much together …  he needs me.  Please, I know what’s best for him, I swear—“

“My decision is final.  You will be transferred back to the hospital and resume your work as a brain surgeon and Enjolras will be reassigned to someone else.” The doctor gave him a quick nod. “Goodbye.” 

Combeferre stood in the hallway and watched the doctors walk off.  He felt like he was going to vomit, he felt like he was going to cry, he felt like he was going to punch a wall … Enjolras needed him. No one else would treat him the way he needed to be treated. 

He walked back into Enjolras’s room and came face to face with Noémi.

“What happened?” She asked, softly. 

Combeferre couldn’t answer her.  He walked over to Enjolras and sat down on his bed beside him.

“Did you get in trouble, Combeferre?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre nodded. 

Enjolras looked utterly distraught. “Because of me?”

“No,” Combeferre answered.  He looked at Enjolras and smiled. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

Enjolras sniffed. “I promise I won’t punch anyone again, Combeferre.” 

“I know you won’t.” 

“Leon Enjolras isn’t ever coming back, right?” 

Combeferre rubbed Enjolras’s back with four fingers. “Right.  I promise.” 

Enjolras nodded and rocked back and forth. “Combeferre says Leon Enjolras won’t come back, Joly,” he muttered, looking into the air beside him.

“Hey, Enjolras?” Combeferre spoke up.

Enjolras turned to him. “Yes, Combeferre?”

“Do you want to go for a walk?” 

Enjolras smiled. “Yes!”

“Do you want to visit Courfeyrac?” 

Enjolras smile softened. “Yes.  Let’s go see Courfeyrac.”

 

Enjolras walked ahead of Combeferre up the paved slope to the top of the hill.  Combeferre sighed as the warm breeze blew through the trees and onto his face; it affected all the nature around them … except the stones.   

Combeferre joined Enjolras at the top of the hill and looked out at the city of Paris below them.  The orange glow of the setting sun danced upon the point of the Eiffel Tower and the faint crash of the bells of Norte Dame could be heard over the land.

            Peace filled the graveyard. 

            Enjolras found Courfeyrac’s headstone first and sat down in front of it, playing with the grass and reading out the engraving on the stone. 

            “Matthieu Algernon Courfeyrac, 1990 to 2011, loving son, devoted friend, the center and light of our hearts.” 

Combeferre stood behind Enjolras silently wishing that Courfeyrac could be here now, to help him with what he was about to have to tell Enjolras.

Combeferre remembered being in the car.

He remembered the rain … God, the horrible rain.

He remembered Enjolras covering his ears because he couldn’t stand the sound of it and rocking back and forth in his seat.

He remembered telling Courfeyrac not to climb in the back, that he would just pull over and they could comfort Enjolras together. 

_“We are on the highway, Combeferre! It’s to dangerous to pull over in this weather!”_

Combeferre remembered Courfeyrac unbuckling his seatbelt and starting to climb into the backseat. 

And Combeferre remembered the sound … the horrible sound of a car losing control in front of them and screeching towards their car. 

_“Courfeyrac, sit d—“_

Glass.

Pain.

Metal.

Rain.

Courfeyrac’s breathing … 

Blood.  So much blood. 

A metal shard that would have hit Enjolras, had pierced through Courfeyrac’s side and punctured his lung. 

Courfeyrac was gone the next day.

Courfeyrac was dead.

Enjolras couldn’t wrap his head around it. 

Combeferre didn’t know how to explain it.

They both had scars from the glass.  Combeferre had a broken hand and leg and Enjolras had a dislocated shoulder.  But why had Courfeyrac suffered the worst?

Why was he gone?

 

Combeferre snapped back into reality and sat down next to Enjolras. 

“Courfeyrac isn’t coming back, is he Combeferre?” Enjolras asked, like he always did.

Combeferre shook his head. “No, Enjolras, he’s not.” 

“Why do people die, Combeferre?” 

Combeferre felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. 

“I think that there is a reason,” Enjolras said. “There is no point of life, if there is no point of death.” 

Combeferre looked at his friend, astonished by the wise words that had just come out of his mouth.  Sometimes he didn’t quite understand him. “That is very interesting idea, Enjolras.”

“The point of life is to feel out of place, to met people who make you feel better and to save people so they can feel better to.” Enjolras brought his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on top of them.

“So, what is the point of death?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras was silent for a moment.  He bit his lip and reached out to rest a hand Courfeyrac’s tombstone. “To go home."  
  



	6. Chapter 6

          Combeferre and Enjolras had decided to venture down into the city and walk around for a while before heading back to the Home.  Combeferre knew Enjolras loved Paris, and he was hoping it might relax him a little before he told his friend the news he was so dreading to reveal … that he had to leave and that Enjolras would be getting a new doctor.

 

“And this is where I sent Grantaire once to make a speech and gather more supporters,” Enjolras said, pointing to the Barrière du Main street sign. “He wasn’t of much help though.”

            Combeferre looked up at the sign and nodded, “Why wasn’t he of much help?”

            Enjolras fidgeted with the strings on his hoodie and kept walking down the sidewalk. “Grantaire is never of much help. He doesn’t believe in anything.”

            “Why do you keep him around?” Combeferre asked, catching up with him.

            Enjolras stopped in his tracks and wore a puzzled expression. “I don’t know, Combeferre.”

            Combeferre shrugged. “That’s fine, Enjolras, I was just wondering.”

            “He always annoys me and he drinks and he insults the revolution, I don’t know why I keep him around.” Enjolras looked troubled. “Should I tell him to go away?”

            “Not if he’s your friend,” Combeferre said. “He is your friend, isn’t he?”

            Enjolras nodded. “He is my friend, Combeferre, and he’s the only person to ever believe in me.”

            Combeferre frowned. “I believe in you, Enjolras.”

            Enjolras’s blue eyes lit up and he lifted his head to stare at Combeferre. “You do?”

            Combeferre smiled. “Of course I do.  You are the smartest, strongest, bravest human being I have ever met.”

            Enjolras dropped his head as he rocked back and forth on his feet and blushed slightly. “That was a really nice thing to say, Combeferre.  People don’t usually say those things to me.”

            “Well, they should because it’s true.” Combeferre put four fingers on Enjolras’s arm. “Your father doesn’t know you like I do Enjolras.  You shouldn’t let what he called you weigh too heavily on your mind.”

            Enjolras bit his lip and continued walking down the sidewalk. “I don’t need Leon Enjolras to be nice to me.  I don’t need him to love me like everyone says fathers are supposed to love their sons.” He stopped again and looked at Combeferre. “I think that if you believe in me and that you are my brother, that it would be all I need.”

            Combeferre smiled for a moment and then dropped his head, “Enjolras … there is something I need to tell you.”

            Enjolras frowned. “Okay, Combeferre.”

            Combeferre paused and then pointed to the small park that was across the street. “Let’s go sit down.”

 

            The two sat down on a bench and Combeferre folded his hands and put them in his lap.  

Enjolras mimicked the action and said, “This is a serious conversation.  Our hands are folded so that we won’t fidget.”

Combeferre nodded. “You are correct.  Enjolras, you know that I won’t always be by your side, right?”

Enjolras stared at Combeferre blankly. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, there might come a time when … I’m not your doctor and I don’t come in at 7:00 in the morning and leave at 6:00.” 

Enjolras shook his head. “No, you told me that you always come in at 7:00 in the morning and leave at 6:00 in the evening.  That’s what you promised me.”

Combeferre took a deep breath and continued, “I know, Enjolras, but that was when I was your doctor—“ He quickly shut his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and his finger. “That’s not—“

Enjolras’s breathing started to speed up and he clenched his hands together until his knuckles went white.  “What … what does that mean, Combeferre? What does ‘when I was your doctor’ mean?  You are my doctor and you still are.  Can you please say that you still are?” 

Combeferre felt his heart breaking. “Enjolras … I can’t say that.”

“Why?” Distraught tears had already formed in Enjolras’s eyes. “Why can’t you say that?”

“I have been told that I have to quit being your doctor and go back to being a surgeon.” 

“Why?”

Combeferre sighed, “Because I got fired for not giving you the care I was told to give you.”

Enjolras shook his head. “But everything is okay, Combeferre.  I like the care that you give me. I’m okay.” A tear fell down Enjolras’s face. “Please don’t leave me.  You said you would never leave me.”

“I have to, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice, “but I can still come to visit you during visitation hours every day when I’m not at work.”

Enjolras stood up, breathing very unsteadily, and started shaking out his hands. “No, no, no, _no_! I don’t want you to leave, Combeferre.  I want to see you at 7:00 in the morning and then say goodbye to you at 6:00 in the evening!  Please, don’t go.”

Combeferre stood and slowly approached Enjolras. “I’ll still see you Enjolras.  I’m not going away forever.”

Enjolras put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. “Everyone always leaves,” he muttered to himself. “Everyone always leaves.”

Combeferre tried to pull Enjolras’s hands down but Enjolras ripped his arm out of the grip of his friend. 

“You are leaving! Just like Courfeyrac left!” More tears filled Enjolras’s eyes. “The only difference is that you are saying goodbye and he didn’t!”

“Enjolras, I’m not dead!” Combeferre yelled. “Courfeyrac is dead and he’s never coming back, but I will. I promise!” 

Enjolras backed away from him. “Please, don’t yell at me, Combeferre.”

Combeferre shook his head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, I’m not mad.  I’m just trying to get you to see that I will come and see you, just because I’m not your doctor doesn’t mean I’m never going to see you again.  Courfeyrac is dead, I’m not.  I’m going to come back.”

Enjolras continued to back away. “It’s all the same, Combeferre.  Leaving is all the same.”

Combeferre stepped towards him. “Enjolras—“

Enjolras turned around and started running out of the park as fast as he possibly could.  He heard Combeferre call after him but he didn’t stop.  He ran down the street and down another block where he finally stopped because he found that he couldn’t run any further.  Crowds of people lined the sidewalk and a long line of police cars and motorcycles surrounded one long limousine that was driving slowly down the street.  

Enjolras recognized the flags that were flying behind the motorcycles and that were attached to the car windows.  They were white with a distinct coat of arms on them, which Enjolras had memorized by heart.

“Louis-Philippe,” Enjolras muttered, “King of the French.”

Enjolras weaved his way through the crowd of people, trying his best to avoid contact with anyone.  He finally got to the front of the crowd and glared at the brigade of policemen passing by.

“Vive la république!” Enjolras yelled as loudly as he could.

One of the police cars screeched to a halt and two policemen climbed out. “Hey! Get the hell out of here or we will arrest you for public disturbance!” 

Enjolras backed up. “Don’t yell at me.” 

“Then get your ass off this street!” One of the policemen yelled. 

“Don’t yell at me, please,” Enjolras repeated. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” 

The other policeman nudged his partner. “He’s retarded or something, man.”

Enjolras turned on the other policeman. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it, retard?” 

Enjolras remembered promising Combeferre not to punch but … Combeferre wasn’t here and Combeferre was leaving him.  Enjolras could only understand how hurt he felt and how much pain had boiled up inside of him.  Now these policemen, who worked for the King, the oppressor of the people, were calling him the R word.  Enjolras pulled back his fist and punched the policeman as hard as he could.  

The policeman reeled backwards, releasing a stream of curses and the other policeman tried to grab Enjolras, but he was too slow.  Enjolras dodged out of the way and, in a blind rage, ran quickly towards the limousine, where he knew the King was.  

“Stop that guy!” One of the policemen yelled behind him.

Enjolras pounded on one of the windows of the limo and yelled, “France is falling because of you! You have oppressed us for far too long! Vive la revolution!”

There was chaos on the streets, the crowed was being held back, in case some zealous citizens tried to join the lone revolutionary in his protest.  The entire motorcade had halted and five policemen marched over towards Enjolras and started to forcefully pull him away from the limousine.  

“Don’t touch me!” Enjolras yelled, trying to pry himself out of their grip.

Suddenly, the crowd of people on the sidewalks broke through the police line and filled the streets, there were shouts of freedom and cries demanding a republic.  The police brandished their weapons and fighting ensued.

Enjolras pulled himself away from the policemen, completely confused about what was going on.  He tripped on something and fell to the ground, _Combeferre. Where is Combeferre? I need Combeferre,_ he thought as he struggled to get to his feet. Enjolras finally stood and as soon as he did, there was a loud shot that rang in his ears.  Enjolras flinched and stood very, very still.  A horrible pain radiated from his side and started to spread throughout his body.

Enjolras tried to run but the first step he took sent daggers of pain, even more agonizing than before, into his side, causing him to fall to the ground.  Enjolras crawled up onto the sidewalk and half walked, half stumbled into an ally, away from the loud noises, where he fell over with a gasp.  He turned over on his back and propped himself up with one of his elbows and looked down at the spot that was causing so much pain.

Enjolras saw red.

Lots of red.

It was all over his hoodie, underneath his left ribs.

Enjolras made a distressed noise and put his hand over the hole in his hoodie, pulling away suddenly when he felt the warm, sticky blood touch his hand.

“Oh my God, Enjolras …” Joly said, kneeling down beside him, “You’ve been shot.”

Enjolras’s breaths became ragged and panicked. “W-What do … I do?”

Joly looked up at him, with a desperate look in his eyes. “Find Combeferre.”

 

 


	7. Seven

“ENJOLRAS?!” Combeferre yelled over the mast hysteria that had broken out on the streets. He had tried to follow Enjolras from the park they had talked in only a few moments ago, but had lost him. While searching, he had run into a riot. Combeferre had no idea how it had broken out, and the truth was, he didn’t care. All he cared about was finding Enjolras. 

Combeferre spotted a man sitting down on the curb of the road, holding his sleeve to his bloody nose. Combeferre pushed through the crowd and ran up to the man. 

“Excuse me, Monsieur, are you all right?” Combeferre asked. 

The man nodded and held up his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Could you tell me what started this riot?” 

“Some guy just walked up to the King’s motorcade and started yelling about freedom and revolution.” The man said, removing his sleeve from his face to speak clearer. “The police tried to stop him but he just kept on going.” A smile crept onto the citizen’s face. “Pretty soon, the entire crowd joined in on his protests and all hell broke lose.” 

Combeferre’s heart sped up a few paces. “Can you tell me what the man who started the protest looked like?” 

“Yeah, I couldn’t really see his face but he was tall, had blonde curly hair and a red sweatshirt. I lost sight of him the minute the crowds broke through the police barricades.” 

Combeferre ran a hand through his hair and looked around the street. “Shit … oh my god …” 

“Is everything okay?” The man asked. “Did you know that guy?” 

Combeferre nodded. “Yeah, I know him. Thank you for you help, Monsieur…?” 

The man climbed to his feet, proving to be much bigger and taller than Combeferre. “Bahorel. And it’s no trouble at all. I hope you find your friend, and when you do, tell him thanks for giving the people a voice for once.” 

Combeferre blinked and frowned. “I’m sorry … what did you say your name was?” 

“Bahorel. …Are you okay? You sure you didn’t get hit or something?” 

Combeferre nodded slowly. “No … yeah, I’m sure. Thanks again.” He turned around and ran down the sidewalk into the crowd. _Bahorel … Bahorel … I know that name._

“You have to keep both hands on the wound, Enjolras!” Joly commanded. “If you don’t put pressure on the blood flow you will bleed out and you will die, do you understand?” 

Enjolras shook his head, wincing as daggers of pain shot up from his side. “I … don’t w-want to touch it.” 

“Then find Combeferre!” 

“I can’t move! It … hurts.” 

Joly stood up and looked down the alley. “Okay, I’m going to go find some help. Put pressure on the wound, all right?” Without waiting for a reply, Joly dashed down the alley and disappeared around the corner. 

Enjolras whimpered as he put his hands on the ground and pushed himself up so his back was leaning against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut when he caught a glimpse of the mess on his sweatshirt. The already red fabric was now stained with a good amount of maroon, as well as a red a little darker than the color of the fabric. 

Enjolras opened his eyes. He hesitantly reached down and stuck his finger through the hole in the sweatshirt. “Gotta … f-fix. O-Old clothes … h-have holes …” He muttered this and other thing to try and distract himself from the large amount of pain he was in. “W-Who stormed … the… the B-Bastille, Enjolras?” He asked, and then coughed suddenly into his hand. The action caused the stinging pain to intensify and his vision blurred. Enjolras pulled his hand away from his mouth and let out a choked cry when he saw more red on his fingers. He quickly wiped his bloody fingers on his pants and shut his eyes. “W-Who … stormed—“ another cough, “Who—“ another cough, and this time Enjolras felt the blood dripping out of his mouth. The pain in his side grew to be almost unbearable and Enjolras kept his eyes shut as the world began to grow even more disorienting. Everything was numb, he felt like he was hanging upside down and every time he took a breath it seemed that fire was all he could breathe in. 

Was this what dying felt like? 

Then … there was a voice. A very familiar voice. A comforting voice. 

“Enjolras, mon frère, open your eyes, please?” Someone was gently stroking his hair and there was a hand squeezing his. “Enjolras, I’m just going to make the bleeding stop. I’m going to put something on the wound, okay?” The hand was removed from his head and then— 

A new explosion of pain. 

Enjolras’s eyes flew open, he let out a cry and tried to push away the hand that was pushing something against the wound in his side. 

Combeferre let go of Enjolras’s other hand and grabbed the one trying to push away his balled up jacket that he was using to try and stanch the bleeding. “Enjolras, stop. Lean back—“ 

“Five!” Enjolras pull his hand out of Combeferre’s grip. “Y-You … I-I don’t like … five … f-fingers. I—“ He coughed and whimpered in pain. “L-Lots of … pain … C-Combeferre.” 

Combeferre rubbed Enjolras’s arm with four fingers. “I know, I know. Please, just … stay still for me, okay? Can you do that?” 

Enjolras moaned. He closed his eyes and stomped his foot against the ground, as if trying to get the pain out of his body. Combeferre looked up at him with tears threatening to fall out of his eyes. He was still in shock from finding Enjolras in such a state and the full weight of what was going on hadn’t hit him yet. 

There was so much blood and Enjolras’s skin was already a very unhealthy shade of white. He was coughing up blood; his breathing was ragged, short and uneven and Combeferre was afraid his poor friend might have been shot in the lung. 

“Hey, Enjolras?” Combeferre lifted his hand and gently stroked the blonde’s curls, coaxing him to open his eyes. As Enjolras weakly pulled his eyes open, Combeferre tried to smile at him. “I need to see if there is an exit wound. If I help you, can you lean forward?” 

Enjolras shook his head. “Please, don’t … don’t make m-me move, C-Combeferre. Can you … can you please … say …” 

“Okay, it’s okay.” Combeferre said, soothingly. “You don’t have to move.” Combeferre sighed and continued the press his jacket into the wound, praying for the bleeding to stop. He looked at his watch and then looked down the alley. Any second now the ambulance he had called the moment he saw Enjolras would show up, but Combeferre felt like they had been waiting for an eternity. He knew a lot of the ambulances had already been called to the scene of the riot, he just hoped they would be able to find Enjolras in time. 

_Stop it,_ Combeferre thought. _He is not going to die._

“’Ferre …” Enjolras’s soft voice cut in through his thoughts. Combeferre looked down at Enjolras and frowned at the fact that his friend had just called him by a five-letter nickname. Enjolras was definitely not okay. 

“Yes?” Combeferre answered, cursing himself that his voice sounded so shaky and scared. 

Enjolras’s eyes were threating to close, his breathing was almost non-existent and his eyes had lost all sign of the fire that usually occupied them. “D-Don’t leave … me.” 

Combeferre bowed his head as the tears he’d been trying to hold in, slipped down his cheeks. This was all his fault. Had he not told Enjolras he couldn’t be his doctor anymore, Enjolras wouldn’t have run off and none of this would have happened. “I won’t, Enjolras.” He answered with a sniff. “I promise, I won’t.” 

Enjolras fixed his blue eyes onto Combeferre and asked, “A-Ask … me … who … s-stormed … Bastille…” 

Combeferre took in a shaky breath. “Enjolras, who stormed the Bastille in 1789?” 

Enjolras coughed and then said, “T-The … people of … of Paris.” 

Combeferre tried to smile and asked, “Who was exiled to Elba in 1814?” 

Enjolras made a weak, disgusted face. “Napoleon … B-Bonaparte.” 

Combeferre chuckled softly. “Yep. And who wrote the Social Contract?” 

“J-Jean-Jacques … R-Rousseau.” 

“And who had read The Social Contract far too many times?” 

“Me.” 

“And who …” Combeferre once again bowed his head and let the tears fall out of his eyes. He took one of his bloody hands off of his jacket and then placed it on top of Enjolras’s, being sure to keep his thumb from touching it. “Who cares about you more than anything or anyone in this whole world, Enjolras?” 

Enjolras released a choked cough and then said in such a quiet voice, Combeferre almost missed it, “You.” 

Combeferre nodded. “You got it. Me.” 

Enjolras made a weak, distressed noise. “A-Ask me … Combeferre …” 

Combeferre reached out and gently stroked Enjolras’s hair. “Ask you what?” 

Enjolras coughed and gritted his teeth. “Ask … me to … g-give up.” 

Combeferre held back a sob and he shook his head. “No, Enjolras, I am not going to ask you that.” 

“Can y-you please … please … a-ask me?” Enjolras leaned his head back against the brick wall behind him and closed his eyes. “Please.” 

Combeferre looked up at the sky and blinked to clear his eyes. “Okay, okay … Enjolras, g-give—“ his voice cracked “—give up.” 

Enjolras cracked his eyes opened and gave Combeferre a weak grin. “Never,” he whispered. 

Combeferre looked down at his friend and smiled through his tears. Enjolras closed his eyes and began muttering unintelligible things while Combeferre looked up at the sky and begged to whoever was listening that his friend would live. 


	8. 8

Grantaire leaned forward and studied the bloody jacket on top of Enjolras’s side. Occasionally, his figure blurred or simply cut out, like a bad cable connection, but he would always come back.  Enjolras was grateful that he always came back.

            “Still breathing?” Grantaire asked nonchalantly, taking a sip out of the bottle that was always in his hands.

            Enjolras’s half-opened eyes flicked up towards him and he nodded weakly.

            Grantaire leaned back against the wall opposite of Enjolras. “Good.  You know … it’s interesting that you called me here, instead of Courfeyrac or Joly or something.  I mean if I got shot and was bleeding to death in an alley, I sure wouldn’t call me.”

            Enjolras opened his mouth and made an attempted to answer but all that came out was a gurgling cough, sending blood spilling over his lips.

            Grantaire shuddered. “Dude, that’s gross.  Try and keep that blood inside your body where it belongs.  Combeferre’s not gonna be happy when he gets back.”

            Combeferre.

            Combeferre?

            Enjolras’s eyes roamed around the alley, looking for Combeferre, who had been there with him only a moment ago … but now he was gone.  Enjolras made a weak, distressed noise and shut his eyes as he felt the fear of being alone wash over him.

            “C-C … mmb … ferre?” Enjolras squeaked, hardly able to get his mouth to move properly. 

            When there was no answer, Enjolras felt anxiety begin to take hold.  He clenched his hands into fists and pressed them against his temples, curling in on himself in an attempt to alleviate the dull, almost numbed pain in his entire lower body.  A soft whimper escaped his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut and began to surrender to the flood of darkness that was sweeping over him. 

            Everything was hazy, there was a loud roaring noise in his ears and the world seemed to be even more confusing than it usually was.  Enjolras could only think that Combeferre was gone, that maybe he had left forever … just like Courfeyrac.

  

            Combeferre practically started crying when saw the ambulance speed around the corner and come to a stop in front of the alley.  He had left Enjolras for only a few moments to be sure the ambulance he had called, what seemed like several hours ago, made it to the right place.

            The paramedics hopped out of the back of the ambulance and pulled out a gurney and two large black bags.

            “Where is he?” One of them asked Combeferre in a calm voice.

            Combeferre turned on his heels without a word and ran to where Enjolras was propped up against the wall.  He heard the paramedics behind him, quickly following his lead. 

            When he got to where Enjolras was, his heart broke for the thousandth time as he saw that his best friend was curled up in a puddle of his own blood, with his fists pressed against his temples.  This was a familiar position to Combeferre, as he had often seen Enjolras lying this way in a corner when he became overwhelmed and completely exhausted.   But never had he been half dead while doing so.

            “We need to get him to the hospital immediately.” The other paramedic said, jumping into action and reaching out to touch Enjolras.

            “Wait!” Combeferre said, pushing his hand back. “He’s autistic and very much dislikes the touch of someone unfamiliar.  He may hurt himself more trying to get away from you.”

            The paramedic looked at Combeferre with a hint of urgency. “Can you get him to cooperate?”

            Before he realized it, Combeferre had sent a glare over to the man. “I can’t _get_ him to do anything.  He’s his own person.  But I will _help_ him cooperate.”

            The paramedic nodded and joined his partner.  Combeferre turned back to Enjolras and quickly got down onto his knees.  Enjolras didn’t seem to register any of the new people in his company and remained in his distressed position.

            “Enjolras?” Combeferre said gently, reaching out and placing four of his fingers on his friend’s arm. 

            Enjolras flinched slightly but his eyes didn’t open.

            “Enjolras, the paramedics are here to help you.”

            Still, his eyes didn’t open. 

Combeferre turned towards the paramedics. “He’s not responding to me.”

On of the paramedics approached Enjolras and nodded. “He’s lost too much blood to be doing anything short of slightly breathing.  He needs to get to the hospital.”

Combeferre moved out of the way and allowed the paramedics to gently grab Enjolras, who made no attempts to fight them, and transfer him onto the gurney.  Once he was on it, the paramedic handed Combeferre his bloody jacket that had been attempting to keep the bleeding at bay.  Once it was removed, Combeferre’s stomach did a flip-flop and the sight of Enjolras’s red sweatshirt and the amount of blood, old and new, that covered it. 

The paramedics began to strap Enjolras onto the gurney and as soon as they tightened the straps, Enjolras’s eyes snapped open.  

Combeferre took in a sharp breath. “Enjolras …”

Enjolras looked around dizzily at the unfamiliar people next to him; he looked down at the straps holding him to some strange contraption, he attempted to move his arms, his feet, his body … but he was trapped.  

Combeferre approached the gurney and followed it, as it started moving. “Enjolras, look at me, it’s okay.”

Enjolras let out a noise of distress as one of the paramedics placed a breathing mask over his face.  He didn’t seem to register what Combeferre had said, or that he was even there.  His arms strained against the straps and his anguished noises were muffled behind the breathing mask.

“Enjolras … please …” Combeferre’s voice broke and tears found their way into his eyes once again.

The paramedics collapsed the gurney and lifted it up and into the ambulance.  Combeferre climbed in after them and sat as close to Enjolras as he possibly could.  Once the ambulance started moving things happened in a blur.  Combeferre focused on Enjolras, who remained distressed, and placed four of his fingers on his hand.  At the feeling of the touch, Enjolras’s eyes traveled down to his hand and then followed the arm up to the person that was touching it.

Combeferre did his best to smile when their eyes finally met.  Enjolras suddenly stopped moving around and stared at Combeferre.  

“I’m here, Enjolras.” Combeferre said, gently. “I’m not going anywhere and you aren’t allowed to either.”

 

Combeferre followed the gurney into the hospital, not once removing his hand from Enjolras’s.  Even after Enjolras had long since passed out completely, Combeferre remained by his side … until he wasn’t allowed to anymore.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, but I need you to remain in the waiting room.” A nurse told him. 

Combeferre shook his head urgently. “I can’t leave him, he needs me!” 

The nurse nodded. “I understand, but the doctors will take care of him until he’s in recovery and then you’ll be able to see him.” The nurse motioned to a chair in the waiting room and helped Combeferre sit down. “Whenever you are ready, please fill out these forms.” She handed Combeferre a clipboard and smiled sympathetically, then left him be.

Combeferre sat in the chair, feeling completely numb.  Enjolras’s blood still covered his hands and his shirt and he couldn’t shake the feeling that a few minutes ago was the last time he would see his friend alive.  Combeferre remembered how he felt when Courfeyrac died, Combeferre remembered all the pain and the agonizing, crippling guilt he had for no real reason, Combeferre remembered how Enjolras had suffered too … but at least they’d had each other.  They got through Courfeyrac’s death side by side; together … that’s the only reason why they could get through it at all.

Combeferre didn’t want to image life without Enjolras … he couldn’t.

 

For what seemed like days, Combeferre waited alone in the waiting room.  He had attempted to fill out all of Enjolras’s information but he found that every time he went to fill in a blank, his eyes would start to swim with tears, and he could hardly make out a word of it.

“Monsieur Combeferre?” A voice came from his left.

Combeferre looked up and saw a young doctor standing next to him with a chart in his hands. “Yes?”

“You came in with Jacob Enjolras, am I correct?”

Combeferre stood up. His heart pounded in his chest. “Yes.”

The doctor held up his hand. “Please … sit down.”

Combeferre lowered himself back down and the doctor sat with him. “Please don’t tell me he’s dead.” Combeferre whispered, hoarsely. 

The doctor smiled. “He is alive, Monsieur.”

Combeferre let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, covering his face with his hand. “Thank God.”

The doctor looked at the chart in his hands. “I am Enjolras’s doctor, my name is Lucas Joly and I’m just going to give you some of the details of his surgery and his current state.”

Combeferre froze.  He frowned and slowly brought his head up and looked at the doctor. “What did you say your name was?”

The doctor glanced up at Combeferre. “Lucas, Monsieur, Lucas Joly.” 

 


	9. Nine

“Lucas Joly,” Combeferre repeated slowly, as the doctor sat down beside him.

Doctor Joly frowned at Combeferre’s shocked state. “Yes, Monsieur.” He studied Combeferre’s face and tried to meet his eyes. “We have met before, Monsieur.”

Combeferre turned to him.

“Two years ago.” Joly nodded. “I was Jacob’s doctor after you were both in a serious car accident.”

Combeferre’s eyebrows rose in recognition. “Yes, of course!” He frowned again. “But that doesn’t explain why …” He trailed off, silently pondering how Enjolras could have possibly been hallucinating a person named Joly years before he’d met one.  Joly wasn’t an exceptionally common name and Enjolras had implied several times that the Joly he saw was also a doctor.

“That doesn’t explain what, Monsieur?” 

Combeferre snapped out of his thought and looked back to the doctor. “Nothing, nothing.” He sat up straighter and took a breath. “How is Enjolras?”

Doctor Joly looked down at his clipboard. “He is doing wonderfully right now and he has the potential to make a full recovery.  The bullet punctured his lung and he lost a lot of blood, but we were able to remove the bullet with little trouble and we are currently replenishing his blood supply.”

Combeferre nodded shakily. The relief of hearing the words ‘make a full recovery’ had brought tears to his eyes. “Has he woken up yet?”

Doctor Joly shook his head. “We’re keeping him under for right now. I thought you should be with him when he woke up; the hospital can be a scary place. Plus he’s on an artificial breathing device.”

“A mask or a tube?” Combeferre asked, praying for the former. 

“A tube,” Doctor Joly answered, watching Combeferre’s shoulders slump. “So you can see why it’s important that he stay under.”

Combeferre nodded. “I assume he’ll be kept that way for at least a day.”

“Yes, Monsieur.  But only one day. Anything longer and there might be complications.”

“Of course.” Combeferre fell silent, his brain listing off all the possible complications and how he would deal with them.

“Monsieur, would you like to see him?” The doctor asked gently. 

“Yes,” Combeferre answered immediately, “please.” 

 

Enjolras didn’t remember falling asleep at a table in the Musain, yet somehow he found himself waking up at one.  He lifted his groggy head, which felt weighed down by some invisible ton of bricks, and looked around. 

Courfeyrac was reclining in a chair across from him with his feet on the table. “You had quite a party last night,” he said with a grin, flipping through the newspaper in his hands. 

Enjolras rubbed his eyes. “Did I?”

“By ‘party,’ I mean that you got sad about the state of the country and drank several hard ciders before you started ranting and then drank several more before you made a speech on the table and then about two and a half more before you threw up in that trash can,” Courfeyrac jerked his thumb in the direction of a small trashcan in the corner of the room, “and then passed out.” 

“Well, that does sound like my kind of party.” Enjolras tried to take a deep breath but found it strangely difficult. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“Not sure,” Courfeyrac said, turning a page in his newspaper. “The last time I saw him was in the alley.” 

“What al—“ 

“Actually, no that was a lie. That was the last time _you_ saw him. The last time _I_ saw him was in the car. I have no clue where he went after that.”

Enjolras furrowed his brow. “Did I pass out in an alley?”

Courfeyrac laughed once, loudly. “Oh yeah, big time.” 

It was then that Enjolras noticed the headline on Courfeyrac’s newspaper: _Area Man Called the “R” Word by Father, No Good Comes of It_

“Here have some water, man.” Courfeyrac slid a glass of water over to Enjolras. “You need to clear your head.” 

Enjolras frowned at the headline and took a sip of the water; immediately he choked and spit it back out, gasping loudly.  Courfeyrac sat up and put his newspaper aside, his expression was worried and a bit puzzled. 

“E, what’s wrong?” he asked, getting out of his chair and coming around the table to Enjolras’s side. 

Enjolras coughed and wheezed between words. “I … don’t … know. I … I can’t—“ Enjolras cut himself off as Courfeyrac came around to help him. His eyes widened and he coughed heavily. “C-Courfeyrac … you … you’re …”

Courfeyrac looked down at his plaid shirt, which was covered in blood and jagged pieces of glass. He gasped at the sight and put his hand on the wooden surface of the table to steady himself. “W-What …?” He looked up at Enjolras with wide eyes. “Enjolras … you’re dreaming.”

Enjolras stared at Courfeyrac’s shirt, his breathing becoming more ragged.

Courfeyrac stumbled up to him and fell on his knees. He reached up and grabbed Enjolras’ shoulders.

Enjolras flinched. “Don’t—“

“Enjolras, wake up,” Courfeyrac pleaded. “Please don’t make me go through this again.”

Suddenly, they were in a car and it was dark and stormy and the world smelled like iron.  Courfeyrac’s hands were still on his arms, but now he was turned at a strange angle, as if he had been trying to climb from the passengers seat into the back where Enjolras was.  Now there was blood dripping from Courfeyrac’s mouth and a piece of metal sticking out of his chest. 

“E-Enjolras don’t … make … me …” Courfeyrac grimaced and bowed his head in a sob. “Fucking hell, Enjolras, please … WAKE UP!”

 

Enjolras’s eyes snapped open and he released a choked scream.  Several hands held him down and a blinding white light blurred anything his eyes would have been seeing.  Something large was being pulled slowly out of his throat, scrapping the sides of his trachea, causing him to gag.

“It’s almost out, Enjolras. It’s almost over.” Combeferre’s voice echoed out from somewhere around him. 

Enjolras didn’t like this. He didn’t like all the hands that were touching him, he didn’t like the feeling of not being able to breathe, he didn’t like the dream he had just woken up from, and most importantly, he didn’t like the pain that was shooting through his whole body. 

“Enjolras, please be still,” Joly said somewhere to his left. “It will hurt less if you are.”

But Enjolras didn’t want to be still; he was always so bad at that. There was no logical reason to be still when people where holding him down and making everything confusing and scary.  He didn’t know where he was, or why someone would be so cruel as to stick something all the way down his throat just to have the pleasure of pulling it out again.

So he struggled.  He gagged and strained against the hands holding him down until finally … he could breathe a little better.  Whatever was obstructing his throat was gone and as the hands that had once held him down retracted, Enjolras fell back against the bed limply.  The lights in the room dimmed and Enjolras could see that he was in a small white room with white sheets covering him and he had a white shirt on and there was a white, or more accurately clear (but Enjolras preferred to keep things in groups) tube sticking in his arm. 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre said to his right, bringing Enjolras out of his search for more white things to put in his group.  Four fingers gently touched his arm and when Enjolras followed him upwards he saw a calming, bespectacled face.  “How do you feel?”

Enjolras’ eyes lingered on Combeferre for a bit. Something about him made Enjolras sad, there was some awful feeling he remembered having earlier that had something to do with Combeferre.  But the feeling was short lived, Combeferre was Enjolras’ rock and right now Enjolras wanted him to be only that. 

“I don’t like it here, Combeferre,” Enjolras whispered. His voice was gone, presumably robbed from him by thing that once occupied throat. 

Combeferre scooted closer to Enjolras’s bed. “I know you don’t and I’m so sorry that you ended up here.”

Enjolras frowned and pulled at the bracelet around his wrist, he didn’t like that it said _Jacob_ on it. “I don’t think that it was your fault. Nothing is ever your fault, Combeferre.”

Combeferre bowed his head, his other hand grabbed onto the sheets and his fingers curled into a fist. “You would be wrong about that, Enjolras.” 

 

A week past slowly; Doctor Joly kept Enjolras either on a heavy dose of morphine or completely under.  Combeferre didn’t like either scenario but he knew that it was for the best. Enjolras had never been in the amount of pain that bullet wound brought and he didn’t know how to handle it, and Combeferre greatly preferred to see Enjolras sleeping peacefully than squirming around on the bed, telling Combeferre that he was “done being here now”.

Sometimes Enjolras didn’t sleep so peacefully though. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of a nap with tears in his eyes, or woke up suddenly in the middle of the night screaming and sobbing. Those were the phone calls Combeferre had come to dread. A nurse calling him up at 2 A.M. asking him in a strained voice to please come down to the hospital to help calm his friend. There was only one incident in which Enjolras didn’t calm down the moment Combeferre walked into the room, that time Doctor Joly had to be called in and a strong sedative was administered.  When Combeferre asked Enjolras the next day what he’d been dreaming about, Enjolras didn’t remember but Combeferre suspected it had to do with Courfeyrac … he was always in Enjolras’ nightmares, just as he was always in Combeferre’s. 

In the midst of all the bad, Combeferre was immensely glad for Doctor Joly. Enjolras took to the doctor immediately, remembering him from the last time he’d been in the hospital.  Combeferre still hadn’t asked Enjolras how it was possible for him to have a hallucinated a doctor friend named Joly and there also be a real one mostly because he didn’t know how to ask the question.  He also hadn’t mentioned that he’d met a man named Bahorel, another one of Enjolras’s imaginary friends out on the streets; for his own sanity, Combeferre was still ruling that a coincidence. 

Saturday finally rolled around and Combeferre was just finishing his second cup of coffee when he entered into the hospital.  He disposed of the cup and stepped inside the elevator to head up to Enjolras’s room, his mind occupied by thousands of thoughts, none of which he had answers to. He felt like he was falling apart. 

 “Monsieur Combeferre!” Doctor Joly’s voice echoed down the hall as the man jogged towards the elevator.

Combeferre put his hand out and stopped the elevator door from closing, allowing the doctor to squeeze inside before they shut again.

“Good morning,” Doctor Joly said, catching his breath.

Combeferre nodded at him, a bad feeling forming in his stomach. “Good morning. Is everything alright?”

The doctor took a deep breath. “I’m glad I caught you, um … I’m not exactly sure.  Enjolras’ health is declining, he—“

“What? I thought that the surgeries fixed the hole in his lung and that his blood supply was almost—“

“No, no, pardon me, I wasn’t clear.” Doctor Joly ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not his physical health, it’s his mental health.  He hasn’t been eating as much as he used to, he didn’t touch any of his breakfast.  He’s usually quite friendly with the nurses when he’s awake but they’ve all reported to me saying that in the past two day he hasn’t spoken to them at all.”

Combeferre frowned deeply and rubbed his eyes. The elevator door opened and the two men walked towards Enjolras’s room. “He did seem a little off yesterday but I thought it was just because of the morphine or …” Combeferre stopped in front of Enjolras’s door, the expression on his face slowly turned to one of sad understanding. “Oh.”

Doctor Joly shook his head. “Oh?”

Combeferre looked at him with regret in his eyes. “Thursday you told me that you started giving him his normal medication, the kind we give him at the Home.” 

Joly nodded. “Yes, but that should have only helped the situation.”

“Among the medications he is supposed to receive is one called Risperidone, which as you know treats—“

“Schizophrenia.”

“Schizophrenia, yes.” Combeferre took a deep breath. “I didn’t … well, when I was Enjolras’ doctor I didn’t give him that medication because when he’s on it he stops hallucinating.”

Doctor Joly frowned. “That is the whole point of the medication.” 

Combeferre nodded desperately. “I know, I know, but … he hallucinates a group of people that are his friends and he _needs_ then to be happy and when he’s on it they go away and he gets so depressed and once he even tried to … he …” Combeferre rubbed his eyes under his glasses and muttered almost to himself. “I knew I shouldn’t have ever given it to him, I had this gut feeling it wouldn’t turn out well but I did it anyway and the result was my fault.”

 Doctor Joly was silent for a moment but then placed a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Monsieur I understand what you are feeling and I’m not saying that you should ignore your gut an allow Enjolras to continue on this medication only to feel lonely and depressed. But I am saying that this medication is the best thing for him. I think you should give Enjolras what he deserves.”

Combeferre couldn’t help but let a hint of anger creep into his voice. “And you know what he deserves, do you?”

Joly nodded and squeezed Combeferre’s shoulder. “Something _real_.”

 

“And … And I haven’t seen Feuilly in a really long time either and I think that it’s nice that Joly is here sometimes but I miss Feuilly and Bahorel and Bossuet and Courfeyrac and even Grantaire.” Enjolras sniffed and tied the strings of the new red hoodie Combeferre had brought for him in constant knots. “I miss them, Combeferre and I want them to come back.”

Combeferre got up from his chair and sat on Enjolras’ bed. “What if I asked Jehan Prouvaire to visit you? Would you like that?”

Enjolras wiped away the tears falling from his eyes and pulled the white hospital blankets further over himself. “I would like to see Jehan Prouvaire but I would also like to see everyone else too.”

“Enjolras, everyone else …” Combeferre struggled to say it, “they aren’t real.”

Enjolras covered his ears and drew his knees up to his chest. “Stop it, Combeferre, please stop.” More tears found their way down his cheeks as he made a distressed noise. “I need them, I need them, I _need them._ ” Enjolras’s voice cracked and he sobbed into his knees.

Combeferre quickly moved to sit beside him, stretching out his legs on the bed and allowed their arms to come in contact with each other. Enjolras didn’t move away from the touch but instead leaned into it. Combeferre asked the calming questions and eventually got Enjolras to regain a normal breathing pattern.

“Enjolras, where did you come up with the name Joly?” Combeferre asked after a while.

Enjolras sniffed and leaned more heavily against Combeferre. “I didn’t come up with that name, Combeferre. I didn’t.”

“Where did you hear it then?”

“From Joly.”

“Joly told you his name?”

“Yes, Combeferre.”

“How—“

“He told it to me when we met.” 

“When you met? Met where?”

Enjolras closed his eyes and made a noise. “Combeferre, I don’t want to answer any more questions, please.”

“Just this one, Enjolras and then I’ll be done, I promise.”

Enjolras opened his eyes. “He taught me to eat vegetables.  He is very smart and he said that he just wanted me to be healthy and I trust him.”

“He taught you to eat vegetables …?”

Enjolras made a distressed noise and put his fingers on his temples.

“I’m sorry, no more questions.” Combeferre rubbed Enjolras’s back. “No more questions, Enjolras.”

“No more,” Enjolras mumbled. 

Once Enjolras was asleep again Combeferre left his room and went to find Doctor Joly. The question he was planning on asking was going to sound utterly insane but Combeferre had to figure out what was going on.

“He said that _I_ taught him to eat vegetables?” Doctor Joly asked sipping his coffee.

Combeferre nodded. “Does that ring a bell at all with you?”

The doctor scratched his head. “I’d never met Enjolras before the accident a while back so there’s no way I … would have …” Doctor Joly stared at his shoes and then slowly looked up at Combeferre. “Well, shit.”

Combeferre’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Back before I became a doctor I had to teach a health lesson at several schools, offices, retirement homes … and one mental disability care facility.”

Combeferre laughed in disbelief. “Holy shit.”

Doctor Joly nodded. “Yeah there were a few slides on proper food portioning and I remember talking about the importance of eating vegetables.”

Combeferre slumped down in a plastic chair in the hospital break room and shook his head. “So Enjolras liked you so much that he just kept imagining you everywhere.” He looked up at Doctor Joly. “You’re real. You’re Joly.  And Courfeyrac … he sees Courfeyrac too and Courfeyrac was real and the other day … I met someone named Bahorel …” Combeferre stood up. “I mean is it even possible that Enjolras hasn’t just been hallucinating people, but remembering people this whole time?”

“I mean its certainty not out of the question,” the doctor said, shaking his head in wonder.

 Combeferre ran his hand through his hair. “I have to find them, Joly.”

Joly’s brow furrowed. “What you’re going to search all over Paris for these people Enjolras has been imagining for years?”

“I have to,” Combeferre said, determination forming on his face. “You said it yourself, Enjolras deserves something real … and I’m going to find it for him.”


End file.
